The Shadow & the Vine
by moirariordan
Summary: Princess Emma was born at the tail end of a great long time of strife.
1. Prologue

Princess Emma was born at the tail end of a great long time of strife, is what they say, and they would be right. Misthaven has never been a stranger to such things, but wounded by a war, stricken with sickness and famine from a horrible winter, and shaken by the Evil Queen Regina's almost-realized threats, the birth of Emma was a good fortune that the kingdom did not quite trust - and her parents, especially so. Queen Snow and King David were beloved by their subjects, but in a way that a cute pet dog is beloved: you quite like to smile and coo at them, draw pictures and give them nicknames, but you're not about to put them in charge of your entire country. Who trusts a puppy's opinions on foreign policy, anyway? And to many people of Misthaven, there was not much of a difference between a puppy and a sovereign. Such is the way things were, back then.

Nevertheless, the King and Queen _were_ in charge of the entire country, and they were quite acutely aware of the challenge facing them, once the foreign threats to their throne were neutralized. It's all very well and good to be given a crown, but actually ruling with it is a different business altogether, and neither of them had what you would call a traditional upbringing for a position like that.

Still, they did their best, and their best was of course very good: David was compassionate and kind, with a head made for numbers and a levelheaded ear, fine tuned to the frequency of his people. His face was the one ordinary people loved and trusted - the farmers and shepherds, hunters and gatherers, merchants and sailors, mothers and fathers. The doors of his receiving room were never closed to those who would seek his advice or help, and he would go on tours to the far parts of the kingdom to visit the people who could not afford the trip to the palace. He came to be called the Shepherd King, a title that David wore with pride and respect, for he knew it was this that gave him his authority. David knew, perhaps better than any other king before him, that the power of a crown is only worth as much as the respect of the people who live under it, and it was this that made him wield it with such deft, sympathetic wisdom.

Snow, on the other hand, was not as good with things like compassion and empathy, which was quite obvious to anyone who knew her. Which isn't to say that she wasn't kind, because she certainly was, or that she was cruel, because she certainly wasn't. In fact it was not Snow's beauty or strength that people spoke and sang of (which are the normal things people speak and sing about, in regards to queens), but her heart, which everyone agreed was by far her most attractive quality.

But there was a ruthlessness to Snow that one only finds in people who were born and forged in fire and hardship, and that was what aided her more than anything else in her time as Queen. She understood the concept of honor, and of refusing to bend down to your enemy's level. One of the reasons she loved David, for instance, was because he never compromised his principles, no matter what kind of pressure he was under. She knew that a victory won through deplorable methods was not much of a victory at all, and that the means do not always justify the ends, but - she just could not particularly bring herself to care.

It was a silly little thing that first helped Snow realize this absence in herself - a legal challenge to the throne from a minor noble, a second cousin of hers through marriage to whom she had once been betrothed. It was a ridiculous claim, and he had no chance of success - Snow had only been six months old when the betrothal was legitimate, and anyway it had only lasted a few weeks before Snow's mother had died and the agreement was dissolved. But it made her _angry_ \- angry because he was a horrid little man who condescended to her in every conversation they'd ever had, and whose very obvious motive was to wrangle another title and some more land out of the crown. Angry because it was an insult to her marriage, to her daughter and her crown, to so boldly stand up in court and tell the entire kingdom that the Queen's entire life is _illegitimate,_ because of a political decision Snow had no part of, made before she could even talk.

It was a minor problem that would have gone away quietly, had Snow given in and awarded him another stupid little word to put before his name, and another castle to take his summers in. But Snow did not _want_ to handle it quietly, and so she went to court. For seven weeks, with her infant daughter on her hip, the Queen argued her own case before the royal magistrate and a growing crowd of her own subjects. She challenged his challenge, and made a point to challenge the betrothal laws as well, and her eloquence and vindictive passion were so impressive that the noble was stripped of _all_ his titles, and left the kingdom's capital a poorer, humbler man.

It was this incident that earned her the name of the Bear Queen, for the people who watched her in court would often find themselves inching back in instinctive fear from the fury of Snow's speeches. There were beautiful portraits done of her standing at the pulpit, young Princess Emma tucked under one arm and a bunch of sedge reed in her free hand - the plant of memory, and a favorite snack of the great, monstrous bears that lived in Misthaven's mountainous forests. It was said that the Bear Queen would forgive but never forget, and may fate help you if you crossed her more than once, for she would snap her jaws and swallow you whole, and the kingdom would applaud her for it.

Thus the King and Queen slowly worked out a way to properly lead their people, and slowly, the people began to allow them to do it. The Shepherd's warmth fed the hearth, and the Bear's strength fortified the door, and Misthaven came back to life again. Crops were harvested, business resumed. Ships sailed, children were born, and the Princess grew up - slowly, haltingly, and surrounded by a kingdom full of people who thought of her as a prophetic symbol of their own happiness, a good luck charm upon which their entire livelihoods depended.

It is understandable, then, what came to happen later. For Emma Swan is, in every universe, nobody's goddamned token.


	2. Plitsblasse

It was a miserable town, really, but to be fair - all of them were. The coast of this particular sea was not a particularly kind place to live - it was always cold, and the storms were frequent and harsh. The money from the ports never made it to the coffers of the men who had actually earned it, as was the way things went in the Southern Isles. This was before Queen Bettina's reforms, you understand. Times were harsher back then.

Of course, Killian Jones was of the opinion that most towns, and cities, and reality in general, were miserable. He was a hard man to impress, and even harder to please, which is quite typical for a sea captain, and a mercenary one, at that. There is also the unfortunate matter of Neverland - who can blame a man for finding the world a bleak and colorless expanse of misery, after a few dozen decades in a realm like that?

But even those who had not been marooned in such a place would be hard pressed to call this town anything but miserable. A port town in the cove of a great cliff, it bore the worst of the stretch of coast's weather, and being placed in such a corner, surrounded by tall expanses of rock, the wind tunnel the landscape created battered the poor village constantly. The people who lived there did so only because they had no other choice, and the same could be said for the ships that docked at its port as well. The buildings were run down and patched together with cement made from the local mud, which had a distinct smell of cow manure to it. Even the name was miserable: Plitsblasse, which was the name of a slimy type of fungus that grew inside a ship's latrine, if not cleaned properly. It could give you a fever, if you breathed too much of it in. A fitting name for a hole such as this, in Killian's opinion.

There was only one inn, and it was owned by a woman named Elfriede, who shut down the bar at dusk every night and kicked anyone out who dared to make the slightest noise after dark. Still, it was the only place to get a drink, unless you could persuade the old harbor master to share his flask with you. But doing so usually trapped you in a conversation about his various ailments, and Killian knew quite too much about the old man's bunions as it is, thank you very much. So Elfriede's it was.

Killian was, unfortunately, quite familiar with this town, and Elfriede's inn as well. Most of his time was spent hiring himself and his crew out to various merchants of varying levels of respectability, and Plitsblasse and her miserable little cove was conveniently located roughly halfway between Huxton and Rathanök, the two biggest port cities in the kingdom. Killian's ship, in her latest incarnation, was stealthy, fast, and excellent at avoiding the royal flûtes, with their complements of overzealous soldiers and sticky-fingered taxmen, and as such his services were in high demand.

So it was with a certain degree of surprise that Killian greeted the barmaid, who for the first time in his tenure as a patron there was not Elfriede herself. Instead, a young girl with mud on her face and a ragged scarf tied around her head stood behind the bar, looking up only briefly at Killian's entrance before turning her attention back down to her cleaning.

"Afternoon," she said, as Killian sat, maybe a few seats closer than usual to the tap. She was pretty beneath all that mud, he could tell. Maybe if he were a few shades less miserable, he would work on charming that muck off so he could tell for certain. "What can I get for you?"

"Rum," Killian said. His voice was scraped hoarse from the wind, and he winced, rubbing at his throat. "Hot, if you can make it so."

"I can," the barmaid said, and promptly disappeared into the kitchen. Killian stared after her absently and felt weariness settling deeply into his bones.

The only others in the bar were old Agatha and her pile of books, who lived in that corner booth as far as Killian had ever been able to tell, and a couple of sailors in the back, looking even more exhausted than Killian felt. One of them was asleep, face down on the table. Or maybe he was dead. Both were equally possible.

Killian was starting to drift off himself by the time the maid returned with his drink, a steaming mug that she placed carefully by his arm. She'd wrapped it in a cloth to protect her hands, and Killian noticed with a vague sort of bemusement that it was the filthy wash rag she'd been using to wipe the bar with before.

It did nothing to dampen the pleasure of a warm drink after months of nothing but the half-frozen, stale swill from the ship's stores. It was spiced with something, lemon and something a little sweeter, and it was probably the nicest thing Killian had encountered in quite a while.

"You are an angel," he pronounced, after his first, careful drink. It tasted just as heavenly as it smelled. The maid simply shrugged, turning her back to attend to the pile of dirty glasses on the opposite side of the bar. "Truly, you are. You've made a weary sailor's day."

"My life's true purpose is finally revealed," the maid replied dryly. Killian nearly choked on the rum, grinning in surprise at her back. "You need a room, sailor? Give me a yes, and you'll help me fulfill my destiny twice over when I go up and shake the spiders from your sheets."

"It seems I am to be your damsel in distress then," Killian said, "for I loathe spiders, and the fair Elfriede never lifted so much as a finger against them."

The maid whirled around, a ring of mugs hooked in either hand. Her eyebrow, crusted with that wretched mud, arched up towards her hairline - whether in amusement or disdain, Killian couldn't tell. Honestly, he'd take either one. "You're not much of a damsel. Your face is unshaven, your eye is bruised, and you smell like the inside of a sheep pen."

Killian surprised himself, then, by laughing. It had been quite a few months since he did it, so being out of practice, it came out sounding like a dog's bark. "And your face is covered in cow manure, my lady. Seems to me we are well matched, in that sense."

The maid scrunched up her mouth in distaste, lifting her mug-laden hand to wipe at her forehead with the back of her arm. "Drat. I thought I'd gotten it all."

"Not quite," Killian said, laughing again at her struggle. She gave up abruptly, her muddy face pulling into a sort of sulk.

"Twelve silver for the room, and a copper for the drink," the maid said, scowling. "If you've been here before, you know where the till is. I'll be back with your key."

"A daring display of trust," Killian said, as she marched toward the stairs. "I might take off with the contents of your safe."

"Damsels don't know how to break safes," the maid said with a scoff, and disappeared. Killian laughed again, just for the sake of laughing, and finished his drink.

Well, he thought. How about that.

* * *

The maid did not return again; instead, it was Elfriede who gave Killian the key to his customary room, along with a stern admonishment to keep quiet during the night.

"None of that yowling, you hear? Bloody sailors, always bringing girls around. Guests have to be signed in, you know!"

Killian rolled his eyes at her. The yowling had been a nightmare, actually, not a girl. Let the hag think what she wanted, though. Killian owed no one an explanation.

"Quiet as a mouse," he promised, tucking the key into his sleeve. Elfriede scowled again, and retreated to the bar to fastidiously count the money Killian had left in the till.

It was Old Agatha that kept Killian company the rest of the afternoon, until dusk fell and Elfriede descended upon all of them. He sat down with the intent to see if the maid would show her frowning, grubby face again, but of course, she did not - but Old Agatha had plenty of good books, and news of the general state of the world that Killian had missed while out at sea, and was happy to share both. It was a good night in a miserable town, and Killian slept soundly for the first time in months.

He did not see the maid again until the next morning, when he came down to break his fast before returning to his ship. She was in the same spot, behind the bar, wiping with that same wash rag, and she looked straight at him when he walked into the room. Her face was no cleaner than it had been the night before.

"Coffee," Killian ordered, and sat down. The maid nodded, and wordlessly disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, his mug was wrapped in her rag again. "Thank you."

"Two copper," the maid replied. Killian dropped the coins in her outstretched hand, and they disappeared into her apron. There was a hint of colored ink on the skin of her arm that winked at Killian playfully as she pushed up her sleeve. A tattoo? On such a young girl? Killian grinned at her slowly, even more charmed than before. "No spiders, I assume?"

"None. I thank you for your assistance."

"It is, as they say, written in the stars," the maid said.

"Then I shall thank the stars tonight, when they awaken to greet me," Killian said. "We are well-acquainted, you understand."

The maid just rolled her eyes again, but there was a tilt to her mouth that Killian liked to think was a smile. "You're setting sail today."

It was not phrased as a question, but Killian answered it regardless. "Aye." He sipped at his coffee, which was perfect, of course. Spiced again, with something deeper and headier than last night's. Cinnamon? No, it couldn't be. Elfriede couldn't afford something as expensive as that. It was a miracle she stocked coffee at all. "To Huxton. A week's journey, if the sea is kind."

"Then you'll need this," the maid said, and pulled a small bag out of her apron. She tossed it straight at his face, and only several lifetimes' worth of sailor's reflexes allowed Killian to catch it. "But don't thank me. I hate to be thanked, and it will only ruin the moment."

Killian sniffed the small bag - it was the same heady spice from his coffee. "Ah, lass, it's too much. Let me pay you for it, at least."

"I don't need your money," the maid said, and Killian did believe her - as filthy as she was, her dress still looked new, and well made. It was hard not to notice such things.

"And I don't need this luxury," Killian said, and watched her face go still for a quick moment, as if frozen. "But I will accept it anyway, and take comfort in it. Tha - "

"Don't!" she said, wagging a finger at him, her mouth pulled into a smirk.

"Fine," Killian said, and reached out to grab her wrist. "At least let me show my gratitude another way."

The maid's expression turned wary, but she didn't pull away, and Killian kept his gaze leveled with hers as he slowly, carefully, kissed the back of her hand.

Her face was flushed by the time Killian released her. It was hard not to notice that as well. "You are far too old fashioned, and a bit of a snake," she pronounced, "aren't you? Don't answer. I don't want to hear you lie."

"I only lie when it accomplishes something," Killian told her truthfully. "Anyway, I have a feeling you'd see through it if I did."

"Your feeling would be right," the maid said. She fidgeted a bit with her scarf, then suddenly turned away, swiveling on one heel. "Safe travels, sailor. Enjoy my gift."

"I will do nothing less than treasure it, I assure you," Killian told the back of her head. He watched, smiling, as she took a deep breath and marched back into the kitchen, disappearing again without so much as a tilt of her head.

It was not until Killian was back on his ship and sailing away from miserable little Plitsblasse that he realized he never asked her for her name. But then again - she did not ask either. Perhaps that is how fate goes, Killian thought.

* * *

If pressed on the issue Killian would simply have said that it was mere coincidence that the majority of jobs he accepted after that involved that stretch of coastline between Huxton and Rathanök. His crew were not fooled, of course. But his crew were hardy, loyal and - most important of all - quiet, content to earn their living and respect their captain's white lies. Such is the case with sailors who have worked together for over a century: you tend to get a little too comfortable with everyone's bad habits.

The maid was not always there, of course. Sometimes it would be Elfriede to serve him his rum and coffee, and Killian would sleep amongst the spiders once more. But the more he visited, the more often it was his mud-splattered maid, with her spices and spark of conversation that did more to invigorate Killian's weary spirit than any magic or medicine he'd ever tried before. And he had tried many.

Each time, she would give him a little bag of spice, and each time, it was different. "This one is for tea," she'd say, or "only use this with red meat." Killian could never quite put his finger on what spices they were, exactly, only that they made his food and drink taste better than ever before. The bag itself seemed to hold exactly the right amount to sustain him until he sailed back into Plitsblasse's port. He suspected it was a spell of some kind; that kind of domestic magic was easy enough to coax out of a local sorcerer's apprentice, or one of the numerous sea nymphs that liked to emerge from the water to dance on the beaches on clear nights.

In return, Killian would bring her gifts as well: trinkets, really, from the places he traveled to. Jewelry, stones, sweets and candies that were hard to obtain in the Southern Isles. It was the little wooden carvings she seemed to enjoy the most, however - the first one being, naturally, a spider.

"I've not seen such delicate knifework since - well," she said, examining the token. "Look, you can see each little hair on its legs!"

"Yes, I had to keep it in my trunk, lest I awake in the middle of the night and give myself a scare," Killian said. The maid simply rolled her eyes at him - a favorite pastime of hers.

"Who is the artist? Someone you owe money to, perhaps?"

"Loads of it," Killian agreed. "I find myself deeper in debt with every animal he carves for me."

The maid tucked the little spider into her pocket, leveling him with a fond, yet stern, look. Most of the maid's fondness came with a healthy side of skepticism. It was one of the many things Killian found perplexingly charming about her. "I thank you for your sacrifice. You are a true damsel through and through, to throw yourself on the altar of poverty for my favor."

"Poverty? Investment, my dear knight. Debts will mean nothing, after all, once you marry me and take me away from all this," Killian said, waving his arm at the merry splendor of the inn.

The maid laughed. "I think I need to slay a few more monsters before I'm ready to settle down into matrimony."

"Then I shall wait patiently in my tower until you are," Killian said, and smiled at her scoff. "What shall I commission from him next? Lady's choice. A dragon, perhaps?"

"No," the maid said, leaning against the bar. The ends of her scarf trailed through a puddle of spilled whiskey; she didn't seem to notice. "A swan. Carve me a swan, sailor."

"Very specific. Do you have a swan familiar? Is that how you make my coffee so enchanting?"

"They're my favorite animal," the maid said, conspicuously ignoring the issue of magic.

"Then a swan you shall have," Killian said. "I will entreat him to take extra care with it, too."

"Whatever you say," the maid said, voice rich with amusement. "Make sure it's a female."

"Is there a difference?"

"Why yes, male swans wear trousers. Also, sometimes they have goatees," the maid said, and then practically skipped away, back to her kitchen. Killian shook his head after her and was utterly useless for the rest of the day, lost to the power of her smile.

The truth was, as you've probably already guessed, that Killian carved these trinkets himself. It was his brother's hobby, and one that Killian only adopted years after his death, when the time came that it no longer felt like he was burning himself alive to think of Liam, and the things he'd enjoyed. The long nights in Neverland had honed his skill to perfection, and it was child's play to make the little statues for his maid, but still - with the swan, he took extra care. He kept it small, so she could keep it in her pocket, but he worked on it for weeks - burning his candles down to their wicks each night until he finished.

The maid, for her part, stared at it for a very long time after he presented it to her. He had left the base attached, and only half detailed so that it seemed as if the swan was emerging straight out of the block of wood. Its wings were extended, and its head turned towards an imaginary moon. The maid stroked it with her stained, dirty fingers, and then carefully tucked it into her pocket - the one in her blouse, this time, next to her heart. When she lifted her face, there was an expression upon it Killian had never seen before.

"I'm coming to your room tonight," she said, "don't lock the door." And before Killian could gather his wits to reply, she was gone.

What can be said, about the night that unfolded thereafter? That Killian paced the minutes away until she appeared, that she'd scrubbed her face raw to get as much of the mud off as she could? That his hands trembled, that her heart pounded so hard he could feel it against his cheek? All of this, you probably already know. People have been falling in love since the beginning of time, and this sailor and his maid were no different. Such is the way these stories go.

Their time together changed, from then on. Killian gave up all pretense, and docked his ship at Plitsblasse for entire days at a time - and as often as he felt he could inflict upon his crew. The maid was always at the inn, whenever he came to call, and he never paid for a room, for it was her bed that he laid his body upon at night.

Still, she did not give him her name, and Killian did not ask. She knew his, by then, but all he ever called her was "Swan." Or, sometimes, softer things, under the right circumstances. Killian was not a man afraid of affection, as some men often were, in those days.

But it was more than just the pleasure of a woman to touch, after so many years of abstinence, that made Killian keep returning. In fact, it was her conversation that he missed the most, even on the long nights, when the sound of the waves and the too-familiar noises of his ship were all he had to keep him company. It was her dryness and her prickliness, the spark of her humor and the smirk she'd don whenever she got a particularly good joke off, usually at his expense. The iron will he could tell that she had, lurking beneath the surface. The compassion, too, and an undeniable sense of honor that she very clearly wished she didn't possess.

It was that compassion that she gave him when he finally told her of the Neverland, and of the curse he bore, as best he could. It had surprised him, actually, that she never questioned the extra shadow that dogged his heels wherever they went, for she had to have noticed the troublesome fellow after so many nights together. But she never mentioned it, until he told her.

"My elder brother Liam was the first captain of my ship - the Jewel of the Realm, she was called back then. We served King Domnall of Misthaven." Swan went rigid against him, and Killian craned his neck to give her a wry smile. "Finally, my secret is revealed - you are in bed with an old man."

"King Domnall," Swan repeated, her faraway gaze locked on the ceiling. "Killian, he ruled almost two hundred years ago."

"Aye. He was a right bastard, too." Swan snapped her chin down to look at him, incredulous, and Killian gave her a helpless shrug. "I did warn you it was a fantastic story, darling."

"You are a fantastic man," Swan said, "so I expected nothing less. Ignore my surprise; go on."

"Very well." Killian turned his eyes inward, and concentrated on keeping his voice steady. He had not told the tale to anyone before, and some parts of it he hadn't even thought of himself for years. "My brother was a decorated sailor, and I had some measure of trust by proxy, just by virtue of being his brother and first lieutenant. We often were given tasks directly from the King - things he wanted to accomplish discreetly, mostly. The Ogre Wars were just ending, see - and Domnall had made many enemies. None of what we did could be called honorable by any stretch of the imagination, but we believed it to be at least necessary. Until Domnall's daughter took ill - that was when we were sent to Neverland."

"Princess Fiona," Swan murmured, a strange note to her voice. "She died young."

"Did she?" Killian sighed. "I never thought to inquire after her fate. She was a sweet girl."

Swan made a small noise of agreement, and tucked her face closer against Killian's arm.

"Everyone knew of Neverland. It was in all the stories, and every so often you would meet some poor chap in a pub that claimed to have been there and survived it. But Domnall actually had one of the sails required to travel there, which he gave to us. Fate knows how he acquired it, but he had plenty of treasures stowed away in that great castle of his." Killian paused to clear the bitterness out of his throat. "He told us that there was an herb that could only be found there, one that would cure the princess' illness. We believed him - why would we not? We were soldiers; we went where we were told."

"He lied," Swan said flatly.

"Yes," Killian said. "The herb was poison. An incredible poison, in fact, the strongest I've ever encountered. Liam fell victim to it, as did most of our crew."

Swan clutched his arm tighter. "Oh, Killian - Domnall was a criminal, one of the worst rulers Misthaven has ever had. What he would've done with it - oh, I'm sorry."

"It was long ago," Killian said, with some difficulty. "It is why I serve no sovereign, and fates willing, never will again. I don't think I could stand it."

"Honestly, I can't really stand it now, and my life has been a daydream in comparison," Swan said darkly.

"You are a daydream," Killian told her, just to see her roll her eyes. She did not disappoint. "You see, Neverland isn't just a place, it's a state of mind. You have a Neverland, as do I. We all have one, and going there - it's easy, if you have the tools for it, but leaving is much harder. The veil cannot be mended after it's torn, and once you are there, it is hard to remember that you ever existed anywhere else. There is a saying there - 'a man dies every time you take a breath,' for breaths in Neverland last lifetimes everywhere else. And I took many breaths, there.

"There were others, too, who were trapped the same way I was. The most fearsome one was a boy who called himself Pan - he wasn't much of a human anymore, if he ever was. Perhaps he was just cruelty and greed given form and shape. There is no way of knowing. I fought him for years, at first with the aim that if I vanquished him, I could escape, but eventually it became...well - "

"Personal," Swan finished for him.

"Quite." Killian grimaced. His extra shadow was gesturing at him, taunting him with silent words, as it always did whenever Killian spoke or thought of Pan. Sometimes the two shadows even fought each other, but thankfully his natural companion was ignoring the intruder's antics - for Swan's sake, most likely. "I killed him eventually, and got what was left of my ship and crew out. But the extra shadow is the price I paid - it attached itself to me, at the moment of his death. I don't know whose it is, exactly, for Pan had no shadow, and I was too distracted at the time to see from whence it came. Perhaps it is a curse - or perhaps not. There was not much in Neverland that had the ability to be known, so perhaps the answer is that there is no answer - the Neverland's version of a scar."

"It's a nettlesome fellow, that's for certain," Swan said, lifting her head from Killian's shoulder to peer at the shadow. It snapped its black teeth at her, and she gave it a dark smirk. It shrank back slightly, abashed. "Does it ever harm you?"

"Sometimes," Killian told her truthfully, and she winced and gave a great sigh, as if irritated.

"It has to be dark magic," Swan said, turning her head away from it in dismissal. The shadow leaped onto the ceiling in protest, but she simply ignored it. "Maybe it's Pan's soul. When you killed him, he latched onto you in a last bid for escape."

"I bloody well hope not," Killian said, appalled.

Swan smiled up at him, and craned her neck to kiss his chin. The vengeful shadow raged silently on the ceiling above them, a flickering, angry ghost.

"I see you believe me," Killian said. "Or else you are very good at pretending."

"I am good at it," Swan said, "but I am not, currently. I knew there was something funny about you from the moment you stepped foot in the inn. Didn't I tell you?" She shrugged. "Not everyone has two shadows, you know. I would not have come to your room that first night if I were not prepared to go to bed with a strange, implausible man who has surely done strange, implausible things. Shadows and demons and Neverlands - pah! I've heard worse."

"The mark you carry is a sight nicer," Killian said, reaching out for her arm. The curling, flowering vine that wrapped itself around her wrist was one of Killian's favorite things to look at in the world, and it was up against some very stiff competition. Especially when he'd so recently divested her of her skirts. "And probably lacks the nasty associations of mine."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Swan said, a touch darkly. "A miscast spell. That is all. I prefer yours - it's a testament to all you've survived. And all you endure, still."

"A magical vine?" Killian asked, tracing its leaves. "My daring Swan, are you a witch? Speak truthfully. I swear that my devotion will be unaffected. I understand times have changed, now, what with all these evil sorceresses running around, but in my time they were as common as garden grass."

"I," Swan said slowly, and slid her arm down to clasp his hand, "am in bed with an old man."

Killian laughed. "All right. Keep your secrets."

"It's not a secret. I'm just utterly overwhelmed by your...maturity. Is that the right word?" She laughed. "I can't bring myself to say 'seniority.'"

"You called me old fashioned, once," Killian said.

"And I was right," Swan said, sliding the back of her hand down his cheek. It was the kind of tenderness she did not often display. "You're not immortal, are you? It was just Neverland that prolonged your life?"

"Of course I'm mortal," Killian said, snagging her hand and pressing it to his breast. "Do I not feel mortal?"

"You feel like milk and honey," she said, and wrapped her legs around him. "The sweetest I've ever had."

"I hope you don't say that to all the damsels you rescue," Killian said, smiling helplessly up at her.

"Just the ones I like," Swan said, and there was no more talking after that, not even from their shadows.

* * *

If there are laws that guide the universe, than one of them surely must be that golden times of peace and comfort can never last - particularly when they are so welcome, and so yearned for. Killian knew this as well as any other victim of the fates, and so it was with resignation, and a fatalistic sort of stoicism, that he watched the tides turn towards darker, more dangerous waters.

"War," Swan said flatly, her fingers wound tightly in the lapels of Killian's jacket. "Surely, Misthaven's queen will be able to - "

"The Bear is fierce, but fierceness alone cannot stop the greed of an entire kingdom," Killian said. "Swan, surely you know the Southern brothers have had their sights set on Misthaven for years? Why do you think they've been building their treasury, so quickly, and so dishonorably? Their people suffer, so the princes can arm their navy."

Swan made a noise of utter frustration, pressing her forehead into Killian's chest. She was trembling, in what Killian thought was fear, but when he reached out to comfort her, she pulled away. "You've seen them? Out at sea - you've seen their ships?"

"Aye," Killian said. "It's why my last job fell apart - that bloody silk merchant. I had to turn back, there were too many warships, circling Huxton's harbor, and the shipment I carried was late."

"Can they win?" Swan asked, eyes wide and desperate. "Surely you're more familiar with the girth of Misthaven's navy than I - tell me, can they win?"

Killian looked at her for a long moment, considering. It would be a mistake to think that simply because he had not asked meant he did not wonder, or suspect - but Killian was a pirate, a sailor, and a survivor, and so of course he did both. His first theory had been that she was a spy - a magical one, perhaps, for kings and queens often turned to such minor creatures as fairies or dryads to accomplish their ends, and a miserable inn in a miserable port town is perfect for gathering information from miserable sailors. But no spy would be so naively ignorant of news such as this, not one that was exceptionally bad at their job. No - she must be a runaway. The daughter of a rich family, nobility most likely, who fled to escape an arranged marriage, or simply the pressures of her life - but a war between her homeland and her adopted sanctuary would certainly give a woman like that a fright.

It did not matter, either way, to Killian, for he already was far too deeply in love to care. She could have been an assassin sent to slit his throat as he slept, and he would have opened his arms to her anyway - such is the way of hearts like his. So he looked at her desperate face, and did the only thing he could: told the truth.

"Yes," he said. "In an all-out war? Absolutely, they can. Easily."

Swan brought her hand to her mouth, horrified. Killian's shadows whirled around her feet, agitated by her distress, the natural shade attempting defending her from the snarls of the unnatural one.

"Darling," Killian said, stepping over the silent battle and embracing her. "It's not as simple as all that, don't lose hope yet. The brothers won't attack until they are certain of their victory - for if they lose, they will have bankrupted their kingdom for nothing. The King may be too old to care for ruling, but even he will notice something like that - and the princes won't risk his wrath unless they're sure they will succeed. There's still time."

"Time for what?" Swan asked. "What can be done?"

"To get your loved ones out of Misthaven," Killian said, watching her face go slack with surprise. "Come now, don't look at me like that, I'm not a fool. You have family there?"

"Yes," Swan said slowly, turning her face down and avoiding his eyes. "But it's not that simple."

"Then let's make it so," Killian said. He reached out and touched her face, rubbing a smear of mud away from beneath her eye. After so long, he barely even noticed the grime that was ever present on her face. "Tell me your complications, and I will help you unwind them. I have a ship, and a crew, at your disposal. Surely, whomever you love, wherever they are, together, we can get them out of harm's way."

"You would do that for me," Swan said, lifting her chin to look at him once more, with that dry, skeptical wariness that had first caught Killian's attention. "I haven't even told you my name."

"I don't need to know anything that you do not wish to tell me," Killian told her truthfully, "and besides, I know you well enough. I know your smile and your heart, and names are far less important than that."

"Such a typical man, to think sleeping with a woman means that he understands her," Swan said, but she was smiling, and Killian laughed.

"You must know, love," he said, "that there is not much that I would not do for you. You must know, by now."

"I do," she said, and leaned into his embrace. "I do. Oh, Killian."

Killian held her, and kissed the crown of her head. "So you will allow me to help?"

"Yes, I - " she pulled away, wiping at her face. "I need to...do something, first. How long - we wouldn't have to leave tonight...?"

"Of course not."

"Then meet me tomorrow. Early daybreak? I'll come to the docks. We can...talk, then."

"I will be there," Killian promised, and kissed her to seal the promise. She kissed him back, harder than she'd ever dared to outside the privacy of her room.

They did not linger, although both of them wanted to, and as they parted, she kept looking over her shoulder as she walked away. She looked as if she were afraid she would never see him again, and Killian, for all his previous optimism, left with a great dread in his heart.

* * *

In Neverland, time had a way of melting away into mist, and so it was that years, even decades, could pass and Killian would not even notice. Sometimes he wondered if it even was that long for him - perhaps it was not immortality that Neverland offered, but instead a form of time travel. He had no way of knowing for sure.

Yet there was no time that had ever passed as slowly for him as that night, as he waited for daybreak. His crew were restless, anxious to get on with a proper adventure after so many tedious months working for tedious reasons, and Killian could not sleep, still arrested by the look in Swan's eyes, and the fear that he had glimpsed within them.

Yet the sun did come, as she did every morning, and Killian saw Swan's silhouette before his tender even reached the shore. She was dressed in her usual clothing, with her usual film of grime across her face, and not for the first time, Killian wondered just what the hell she did with those cows to get that much muck all over her face.

"Good morning," she called out, waiting patiently as he tethered his boat and climbed up onto the dock to join her. "I brought you your coffee. Free of charge, this time. A gift from Elfriede, to thank you for your loyal patronage."

Killian took the mug from her gratefully. It was still warm, suspiciously so in light of the chill of the morning breeze, and the red in Swan's cheeks that revealed how long she'd been waiting. "A gift from Elfriede, you say? I did not know she held such regard for me. Perhaps I should be running off with her, instead."

Swan smiled at the joke, but there was sadness in it. "She would not have you. She only has eyes for respectable men."

"I'm plenty respectable."

"Yes," Swan said, and paused for a long moment. "Yes, you are. In a very unique, precious way."

Killian stared at her stricken face, and the dread in his heart started to stir, thickening into dismay. "You have bad news for me."

"Yes." Swan's shoulders stiffened, and her chin lifted.

Killian drained the coffee in one long gulp, ignoring its temperature. She'd added a spike of rum to it, he noticed. Definitely bad news, he thought.

"I'm not coming with you," Swan said.

Killian stopped short. It was not hesitation - there were a number of outraged, disdainful things that he wanted to say, and he was simply torn between which one to choose first.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, and Killian scoffed loudly. Her eyes narrowed. "I do! I know. Trust me, I know. But I've not...been honest with you, or at least - I've not told you some things. My father always used to tell me that keeping secrets is the same as lying, and I never believed him until now. Because you deserve to know everything, and I just...I can't tell you. And I know it's wrong of me. I know it."

Killian took a measured breath, and took a step back to get his bearings. She flinched, a little, clearly taking it as a subtle rejection. "You can't tell me, or you don't want to? There's quite a difference, and if you're willing to stake your safety on it, Swan - "

"I can't," Swan said. "I mean, I won't. It's not that I physically can't - it's not an issue of magic, or at least not this part of it. It's a matter of yoursafety, Killian. Or your...security, rather. If I tell you everything…"

Killian could imagine. "Right," he said, resigned. "Then you are a spy. I thought at first that you were."

"I'm…" Swan paused and bit her lip, looking torn. "Of a sort. Not...really, though."

"You do realize that I am not actually a damsel in distress," Killian said dryly. "I've survived much more than you could possibly imagine, and then some more, on top of that."

Swan smiled sadly, and reached up to briefly touch his cheek. "I know," she said.

Killian sighed. "You have your reasons," he said, after a long moment of frustration. "If I can't persuade you from them - "

Swan shook her head.

"Well. I suppose I saw this coming, in a way." Killian turned to toss the empty coffee mug into the surf, taking the opportunity to turn his face away, so she would not see the dismay that surely was upon it.

"I do not mean to reject you," Swan said softly, the words almost swallowed up by the sounds of the waves. "Did you mean it? When you said that you and your crew were at my disposal?"

"I do not say things I do not mean," Killian said sharply, his pride still stinging.

"Then I would still ask something of you," Swan said. "Your help."

"I am, if nothing else, at your service," Killian said wearily. "What would you ask of me? Aside from allowing you to remain in danger, which will take quite a lot of my fortitude as it is."

Swan winced. "My kingdom is in more danger than I," she said. Taking a step forward, she reached out her hand tentatively, and graced him with a relieved smile when he took it in both of his.

"And what would you have me do about it?" Killian asked. He'd meant to say it flippantly, but it came out sincerely instead, and at the look of pained relief that appeared on Swan's face, he could not bring himself to regret it.

"Sail to Misthaven," Swan said, and pulled a small, bound journal out of her apron. "You will find my loved ones in the Morning Forest. There's a map, in here." She tucked the journal into Killian's vest, her hands lingering at his throat. "Ask for Robin Hood. And - " here, she seemed to falter, her fingers clenching into fists against his skin. She took a deep breath, and looked up, directly into his eyes. "And if you still love me, then you will know what to do then. If you still love me, you will know how to help me. And if it's your face I first see, then I will know I have not lost my chance."

"Swan," Killian said, feeling as if his heart were twisting into a great, tangled knot inside of his chest. "I would never, could never - "

"Don't say that!" Swan exclaimed. "You can't say that until you know. And I can't explain it, but - just go, and I promise you will understand."

Killian pressed his lips against her forehead, clasping her shoulders tightly. She shuddered a little, and the ends of her scarf and the tangled ends of her hair whipped around them, frenzied by the morning wind. The world grew soft around them, and even the monstrous sea quieted, as if it were afraid to intrude.

"Kiss me properly," Swan said thickly, and Killian obeyed, for he could do nothing else.

It was a curious kind of kiss, not the kind that they had ever shared before, and Killian felt a strange sensation that was much more than the usual sort one feels when kissing the woman one loves. It was like a kind of pulling, that began in his chest and then soared up his spine to the back of his head, and he noticed - in a distant sort of way - that his knees were trembling like a schoolboy's. Swan's hands were clutched painfully tight on the sides of his face, and it felt as if they were held together by some great, outside force - a pair of invisible hands, pressing them together.

He felt lightheaded, when she finally released him. Swan's face was a beautiful blur, her eyes a colorful splash of blue and white against the grey mud of her face.

"I love you," she said. Killian tried to answer, but found that he could not. "And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It was the last thing he heard before the ground rose up to meet him, and as he surrendered to an empty darkness he dimly felt her hands still cradling his face, keeping him steady as he fell into the cold.

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	3. The Shadow

There are a great number of mysteries in the world, mysteries which most people do not think of as mysteries. Shadows, for instance - who would ever suspect them of being more than what they look like? People think they control them. They think their shadow is simply there, a product of alignment and nothing more, the sun being where it is and bodies standing like so and thus, there is a shadow. Nothing more than a physical consequence, a trick produced by light and darkness. They are wrong, but it is hardly their fault. Shadows take care to make themselves seem much simpler than they are.

Children know better. Shadows will talk to children more often than they will talk to anyone else, which is why children are frightened of so many things. There is much to be frightened of, in the world, and shadows tend to be an anxious bunch. They also have trouble describing things properly, which is how the concept of 'monsters' came about. Not that those don't exist, either, but the unfortunate shadow who'd first created them in their child's mind had been attempting to describe a tornado.

The shadow of Killian Jones was older than most, though shadows don't tend to lend much credence to age, considering how often they die and come back to life every day. Killian's shadow had seen much, however, and endured even more, and as such they considered themselves an authority on life and many other things.

The first few days without their enemy double gave Killian's shadow a sense of freedom they had never known - for even before Neverland, Killian Jones' life had been one full of strife and hardship, and his shadow had always shared the burden. The second shadow he'd gained there had been his first's most persistent, agonizing enemy, and while they were determined to keep the demon at bay for Killian's sake, now that it was gone, they were happy - as happy as a shadow can ever claim to be, that is.

Killian himself, however, was not, and his shadow was cognizant enough of their companion's moods to realize it. There had been a great heartbreak, which the shadow could feel, to some extent. They remembered when the brother had died, and again, when he'd left Neverland and had discovered how much time had passed. Each instance had been arresting enough to allow the shadow to feel some of the pain - just a glimpse of it, they were not so much part of each other that the shadow could feel more - but enough to make the shadow regret it.

It was the woman, somehow. It had to be.

Misthaven was unrecognizable from the last time they were here, but the shadow barely recognized anyplace, really. Other than Neverland, which had been a home of sorts to shadows everywhere - not a welcome one, but a home all the same. Misthaven, however, was just another kingdom in a land full of them, another unremarkable land full of unremarkable dangers, in the shadow's opinion.

Killian sailed into the harbor in the early morning, and so the shadow was just waking from their sleep when he stepped foot onto the dock. There were flowers tied to the city gates, and most of the people wore black shawls over their shoulders. The shadow felt strangely uneasy.

"What is this?" Killian asked. The shadow paused at his feet, so they could listen. Shadows always had to concentrate, to listen to humans' words. "The princess?"

"Princess Emma, aye." Another man, with a scar across his chin, and a heavy, leather coat. "Received word of her death three weeks past. The Shepherd declared six months' mourning, just the other day."

"Three weeks," Killian said thoughtfully. The shadow didn't know, nor care much, about whatever significance that had. "How did she die?"

"Who knows?" The other man shrugged. "She was on some diplomatic tour, hadn't been home in a couple years. Royals haven't said anything official."

"And unofficially?"

"Well, what do you think, sailor? You've more idea than I, most likely."

Killian scoffed. "I've not been home in months, friend, and the only shores I've seen have been cold and silent."

"Hm," said the man. "Well - we are old acquaintances, so I suppose that is enough. You didn't hear this from me, though."

"Of course," Killian said, and leaned in. The shadow leaned in with him.

"It's said," the man explained, so quiet the shadow had to strain even more than usual to hear, "that she ran away. The queen had a spell put on her when she was young - one of those life spells, to track her location, since she used to run off all the time. Young Emma had magic of her own though, everyone knew that, and there are those who were close to the castle that said she'd found a way to modify it."

"Modify a tracking spell?" Killian asked. "That's not possible, is it?"

"Aye, well - a princess would be capable, even if no one else could."

"Fine," Killian said, "then they know of her death because of the spell."

The man shrugged. "They must. How else? That's all I know, anyway."

"All I needed," Killian told him. The shadow moved to clap the other man's shadow's arm, in tandem with their humans. "I thank you, friend," he said, and slipped a few coins into the man's pocket as he brushed past. The other's shadow was one of those silent, boring, mortal ones, and nodded quietly at the gesture.

The woman had had a shadow too, a lovely one that Killian's shadow had liked very much. The woman's shadow was lithe and tricky, and had stuck to the corners while Killian's shadow and their double waged battle. Every once in awhile, though, the woman's shadow would stick out a leg, or wave a strategic hand, at just the right moment to allow Killian's shadow to emerge victorious. They had never spoken, but Killian's shadow had known that the woman's was capable of it. They had looked forward to saying hello, one day. When they could.

The shadow allowed themselves to be pulled along as Killian strode through the streets, feeling their strength rise and fall as he strode in and out of the sun's direct light. If pressed, the shadow would say they did not care much of their companion's ups and downs - but shadows were stubborn, prideful things, and the truth was that Killian's shadow did care quite a bit. Who could blame them, when they'd been his steady partner - and defender - for so many years? Shadows did not fear death, of course - why, dying was something they did every day! But they did fear oblivion, which is a very different thing. Killian Jones had been closer to that fearsome sort of existence than any other man who'd ever lived - and his shadow had lived and died and lived again, millions of times, on its edge.

If shadows had wishes - most shadows don't - they'd wish only for an afternoon of peace, every once in awhile, and a field to run around in. Killian's shadow had more wishes than most, and more thoughts too, for that matter. So it was that on that Misthaven afternoon, free of their enemy for the first time in years, the shadow had a moment of pure, logical clarity and understanding.

Their double was gone, but so was Killian's woman. And in the shade of a canvas awning, the shadow watched as Killian drew back his sleeve and ran one hand over the spring green vine, now tattooed upon his wrist. Eye for an eye, a shadow for a vine, the shadow thought, and wrapped themselves around Killian's feet in a silent, unnoticed attempt at comfort.

"Princess," the shadow heard Killian say. "A princess. Bloody fucking hell."

He stormed off again, and the shadow stormed with him. There was adventure afoot, they knew. The shadow was more than up for it.

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	4. The Morning Forest

Misthaven had many forests, as did the kingdom where the lady known as Marian of Morning was raised. Her homeland had never been as grand nor as magical as Misthaven, and since it did not even exist anymore, Marian did not like to dwell upon it, or compare. Although sometimes she did tire of the color green.

The Morning Forest was quite a nice place to live at any rate - much nicer than Nottingham had ever claimed to be. There was plenty of game to hunt, and timber to build shelter. The trees were thick and the skies were kind, granting them with sunshine for most of the year, save for the storm season in the fall, which was gentle and manageable. Her merry men were loyal and true, and her son grew stronger each day from the medicines the dryads gifted her in exchange for her gang's protection of the forest. It was a good life, a simple life. A life with purpose, and clarity of focus. Marian liked focus. She had straightforward goals, and dedicated herself to fulfilling them.

She did not seek adventure, but she did not withdraw from it when it found her. She wanted to teach her son to be brave, but not reckless, to stand against injustice when he saw it, but not court unnecessary danger, either. For Marian had once been reckless herself, with her heart and with her life, and she'd barely survived what became of them both. There was nothing she wanted more than to protect her Roland from that sort of pain, although she knew she could only do so much. The world outside the forest was seductive, and she could already see him being tempted by it - and she knew that one day he would leave, just like his father. She could only hope that Roland's departure would not be as final as Robin's - she didn't think that was too much to ask for.

He was a sickly boy, her Roland. A plague had swept through Misthaven when Marian was pregnant, and for weeks after his birth, they did not know if the child would survive. But survive he did - with the help of the dryads, along with some other magical assistance - and Marian had hope that he would someday overcome his sickness completely. But for the time that we are concerned with, when he was still young, Marian savored her chance to smother him with her love and protection. She had learned to take the blessings of each day slowly, and to make them last as long as she could.

It is why she liked to linger in the mornings - which was often the only time of day that she had Roland all to herself. Her tent was as secluded and private as it could be, in a crowded camp such as theirs, and Marian liked to start the day slowly, make breakfast herself and allow her son the luxury of awakening naturally.

It was on a morning such as this that Marian and Roland were interrupted by Little John - the first to interrupt their solitude that morning, as he very often was. He had served as her husband's lieutenant, and now he was hers - a duty that he took very seriously. It was often the only thing he took seriously, in fact.

"A visitor arrives," he announced, popping his head through Marian's tent. His bearded face was split with a jolly smile, and Marian lifted her head from the morning's porridge to smile back. "Oh, Fierce Roland! I did not see you there. I had thought you would be with the morning's raiding party, off to intercept the royal stagecoach."

Roland laughed in delight. "I haven't even had breakfast yet!"

"Ah, understandable. Can't go thieving without breakfast." Little John pushed the rest of his bulk into the tent, letting the canvas fall shut behind his shoulder. "Best feed him quick, milady, before he loses his patience and leaves without us. He's a busy man."

Marian rolled her eyes, handing Roland his bowl. "Busy, indeed, which is why he has been far too distracted to change into day clothes."

"Mu-um," Roland said, balancing the bowl carefully on his knees. He scrunched up his face in another giggle as Little John ruffled his hair, unsuccessfully trying to duck his head out of the way.

"Eat quick, for you'll be interested in this one, lad," Little John said. "'Twas Much and Arthur's discovery, on their patrols last night. They thought it was a dead body at first, on the bank of the river, but thankfully their first impression was wrong."

"Thankfully," Marian said, sitting down next to Roland to help him balance the porridge bowl. The boy ate every meal like it was his first after a long fast, she thought fondly, watching him shovel the grain into his mouth. "Is the poor girl alright?"

"It is a man, milady," Little John said. Marian and Roland both looked up in surprise - most of the visitors who risked the journey this deep into the forest were young women, fleeing a cruel husband or father. Men, usually, had better options than running away to join a band of thieves in the most dangerous wood in Misthaven. "A sailor - a pirate, most likely, judging by his dress and manner. He slept through the night, but awoke this morning with his wits intact. He is uninjured, but appears weak from hunger."

"Feed him then," Marian said impatiently.

"We did! But he took only a little, and says he must speak with you. He's bloody persistent, too."

Roland perked up at her side, his little eyes growing wide with curiosity. Marian smoothed his hair back fondly. "He asks for me? By name?"

"Well," Little John said, his deep voice rich with humor, "not exactly. Robin Hood is who he seeks."

Marian laughed. "Then we must not disappoint him," she said, plucking Roland's empty porridge bowl out of his hands. "Come, Roland, my love. Would you like to meet a pirate?"

"Yes," Roland said eagerly, practically falling over himself in his haste to rise up out of his bedding. "A real pirate?"

"As real as the ground beneath our feet, my boy," Little John said, stomping one of his great feet upon it for good measure. Roland's smile widened into a grin. "We divested him of his sword and daggers, of course, but left him otherwise untouched. You should see the coat he wears, Fierce Roland! As thick as one of our tent canvases, and adorned with useless finery! His boots are utterly ridiculous as well - it's no wonder the forest defeated him so easily."

"He did not threaten anyone?" Marian asked, unable to help herself. Little John would not have spoken of the stranger in front of Roland if he did not think the man harmless, but Marian was a mother, and mothers are, traditionally, a bit paranoid. "And he has shown us kindness and gratitude?"

"Oh, yes, yes," Little John replied, smiling at her fondly. "He's been nothing but gentlemanly. A bit melodramatic, maybe. But the man says he's in love, so that's bound to happen."

Marian and Roland rolled their eyes in unison, sitting side by side on the bedding, lacing up their boots.

Little John laughed. "That's exactly what Mulan said."

* * *

The man had been given his own tent, and it was the lack of guard around it that truly put Marian at ease. A few of the younger girls were even crowded by the campfire closest to it, trying to sneak looks through the flap - although they scattered like bluebirds the second they caught Marian's eye.

"He's a handsome bugger," Little John murmured, his voice tight from holding back a laugh. His voice often sounded like that. "Jones! - Oh, pardon me milady, I'd forgotten to give you his name. Well, he'll introduce himself, I'm sure - Jones! I've brought you Robin Hood!" Little John slapped his palm twice against the canvas flap, and Marian bit back on a laugh of her own. Roland, at her side, was vibrating with excitement, his fists tangled in her cloak. "Jones! Come on man, don't tell me you've fallen asleep already, you lazy sod!"

A rustling came from within, and then the flap was withdrawn, and a man appeared in its opening. He wore no coat, but she could see right away why Little John assumed he was a pirate - his face was unshaven, and there were scars upon his hands and wrists, one of which was obviously one of those barbaric hatch marks they carved into men's knuckles for stealing (Little John had several of those, himself). His eyes were sunken with exhaustion, but his shoulders were straight and proud, and he held himself with dignity. His expression was wry when he turned it on Little John, but not truly angry, and the last bit of Marian's hesitation melted away. "Ease off, would you, mate? Bloody hell." The stranger shot Little John a friendly scowl, then seemed to startle when he caught sight of Marian. "Oh - milady. I apologize, I didn't see you there." His face creased in confusion, and he graced Little John with another frown, this one tinged with irritation.

"No need to apologize to us," Marian said, stepping aside slightly so the man could see Roland, still halfway hidden behind the drape of her long cloak. Jones' eyes widened, and he straightened his back, as if he were standing to attention. Sailors, Marian thought, with another bitten back laugh. "If a few dirty words were all it took to scandalize us, we'd never get anything done, would we, Fierce Roland?"

Roland, shy as ever around strangers, blushed and buried his face in Marian's cloak. Little John laughed and patted his head fondly.

"A promise is a promise, Jones," Little John said, bending down and offering his hand to Roland, gently coaxing him out into the open. "The infamous Robin Hood, at your service. Monsieur Robin Hood, may I introduce Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger."

Jones' eyes widened a bit more, and Roland lifted his chin and said, in his clearest voice, "my merry men welcome you, Captain Jones." Then he blinked, and said, "can I play with your sword?"

"No," Marian said, before anyone else got any funny ideas. Roland's mouth turned down into a slight pout.

"You, lad," Jones said faintly, "are the thief known as Robin Hood?" Roland nodded guilelessly. Marian and Little John watched Jones warily for a reaction, but all he did was run a hand through his already messy hair, disheveling it even further. "Well. That is...unexpected."

Roland just shrugged, well used to this sort of reception from the strangers who came to their camp. "Can I play with your daggers, then?"

"No," Jones said, in unison with Marian. Little John snorted loudly.

Roland huffed, looking slightly betrayed. "Are you even a real pirate?"

"I…" Jones looked at Marian, who tried her hardest to contain her smile, so as to look appropriately stern. "...am, yes," Jones finished with a wince. "Occasionally."

Roland looked skeptical. "You don't look like the pirates in my storybooks."

"And you don't look like the infamous thief that lived in mine," Jones said, with surprising humor. "So I suppose they've got both of us wrong, haven't they?"

Roland opened his mouth and then shut it again abruptly, considering this. Then he smiled. "I'm in storybooks?"

"A very special one I possess, and at least a few others, I'm sure," said Jones.

"Wicked," Roland said. Little John laughed, and Marian finally broke as well, letting her smile free.

"Ah, we've tortured him enough, I think," she said. "It's time for sums anyway, my love. Little John can take you to the Friar's today."

"Aw," Roland said, scrunching up his face in displeasure. But he allowed her to kiss his cheek, and raised his arms happily for Little John to swoop him up into the air, laughing in delight at the playful shake Little John gave at the end. "Nice to meet you, Captain Jones."

Jones, to his credit, did not laugh. "The honor was mine," he said, giving a little bow. "I thank you for your hospitality."

"S'nothing," Roland said, and shrugged. Jones' mouth twitched.

"We're off, milady," Little John said. "I'll return the runt in one piece, I swear."

"See that you do," Marian replied, smiling and returning the wave Roland gave her, over Little John's shoulder. When she turned to Jones, he was watching her curiously, his face a mask of genteel patience. "I apologize for the performance, Captain. But my son does so enjoy it."

"Your son," Jones said thoughtfully. "He's a handsome boy, indeed. Not quite what I'd been expecting, granted."

"There is much in this forest that you did not expect, I wager," Marian said, eyeing the infamous boots that Little John had had much to say about. Jones caught her looking, and gave a long-suffering sigh. Marian could not help but laugh. "Walk with me, Captain. It seems that we have much to discuss."

"Clearly," Jones said dryly. "Shall I leave the boots behind?"

"Bad boots are better than none," Marian told him wryly, turning her back to him to leave. "But do try to keep up."

* * *

Jones was quiet as Marian led him through the camp, deferring to her guidance without so much as a pained grimace. This was unusual for a man, especially a sailor with a designation such as "Captain," and Marian's estimation of him rose a little bit higher.

"You've met quite a few of us already," she said, breaking the silence as they passed Mulan's grotto. The sounds of her sword could be heard through the draping vines of the trees - hard at work with the students as usual. Mulan never rested, even when she wanted to, Marian thought fondly. "Little John seems fond of you already, and you've only been with us for - what, half a day?"

"I believe he finds me to be an easy target," Jones said wryly. He glanced over at the grotto, his eyebrow raising in interest, but did not mention it. "It was foolish of me to risk the trek on my own, and so unprepared, at that. I know better."

"You were in a rush," Marian surmised. Jones nodded.

"I did alright at first. But I am made for the sea, not the trees."

"Did you swoon?" Marian asked dryly.

"Quite dramatically," Jones replied, and she laughed. "I did not want to risk poisoning myself, so I ate only what I brought. And I severely underestimated how much rations I would need, I'm afraid. So I was not at my best during my battle with the river, and - well."

"You will eat your fill at the evening meal, then," Marian said. "Little John said you refused to take enough when you awoke this morning."

"You have done enough for me already, milady," Jones said. "I would not impose on your hospitality anymore than is necessary."

"Nonsense. No one goes hungry in this camp." Marian led him away from the grotto, deeper into the forest paths, where they would find solitude. "I suppose we both owe each other an explanation."

"This is your home, you need not explain it to anyone," Jones said. He followed her down the well worn path, the dappled sunlight casting shadows across his handsome, tired face. Marian walked for long enough so that they would not be overheard, and then paused to allow him rest. The look on his face was grateful. "I apologize for my intrusion. I was sent here by - well. Perhaps my information was mistaken."

"It is no intrusion. We welcome all but those who mean us harm, and those who mean to arrest us," Marian said. "I have a feeling you are neither."

"You would be correct in that feeling. And I thank you." He leaned heavily against a tree and closed his eyes briefly. Marian watched him thoughtfully - he looked, quite simply, terrible.

"If whoever sent you here meant to direct you to my former husband," Marian said, and watched as his shoulders tensed, his eyes flying open once more, "then you would be too late. The first Robin Hood was Roland's father, and he resides in the Queen Regina's palace. My son holds the title now, though for obvious reasons, I perform his duties." Marian paused to smile. "Except for welcoming new faces to our camp."

"He's very good at it," Jones said. He blinked at her. "Queen Regina - you don't mean her consort? Robin of Loxley?"

"I do." Marian refused to look away. "She came upon us six years ago, when Roland was but a twist in my belly. They are soulmates. Or - so they told me, before they left."

"Ah." To his credit, Jones didn't do anything silly like apologize, although his face twisted in silent sympathy. "The Evil Queen is known for her bewitchments. Though I assume you have already - "

"Yes." Marian waved a dismissive hand. "He is there of his own volition, trust me. It is of no matter - six years is not that long, but not so short, either. If your informant meant to send you to him, they must be gravely misinformed themselves, or otherwise up to something."

"I..." Jones trailed off helplessly, speaking more to himself than to her. "No. No, she mustn't have meant him, then. Surely she would've known, and Regina is an enemy of Misthaven, she would not have directed me there."

"Then she meant us," Marian said. She frowned curiously. "A woman you love?"

"Yes." Jones grimaced. "She's - my God, I knew her only as 'Swan.' I only suspect her true identity, and if I'm right…" He looked up at Marian helplessly, his face creased in dismay. "You must think me a fool twice over, now."

"It is a wise man who makes himself a fool for the right reasons," Marian said, smiling softly. "My father used to say that."

"How quaint." Jones sighed. "She is a woman I met in the Southern Isles, in a port town my ship used to frequent often. We were together for nearly a year, before news of the war reached us. I wanted her to leave with me, but she refused, and instead directed me here, with this - " he reached into his belt and pulled out a journal, aged and weathered with use. He opened it to a page marked with a string, and offered it to Marian. "A map to your camp, milady. It's what I was following when I collapsed."

"No wonder you got as far as you did," Marian said, examining it closely. She had a suspicion about this man, this sad, tired sea captain, and it was growing stronger with every word. "This woman - she told you to ask for Robin Hood?"

"Aye." Jones ran a hand across his face, as if trying to wipe the exhaustion away. "She said her loved ones were here. It's what I had wanted in the first place - to escape the Southern Isles, and to retrieve her family from Misthaven before the war broke out. She said it wasn't that simple." He scoffed. "Little did I know."

"What does she look like?" Marian asked slowly, closing the journal with trembling fingers. The front cover was embossed with a handcrafter's stamp that had been scratched out, but it was clearly an expensive book, bound in real leather.

"She is radiant," Jones said, almost perfunctorily. His expression was carefully blank. "Golden hair, blue eyes. Only a bit shorter than I, slim, but solidly built, with strong legs and arms. She had dirt on her face constantly, but it did not do much to disguise her beauty, if that was her intention."

Marian's heart pounded in her chest as she gave the captain back his book. "I know of whom you speak." She held the journal out halfway between them and waited for him to reach out for it, forcing her face not to twitch. When his arm extended, she did not hesitate, grabbing him by the wrist and shoving up his sleeve to expose his skin.

He did not react with violence, only surprise, when he tore out of her grip. But a moment was all she needed - the tattoo was brightly colored, even in the dim sunlight: a flowering vine, rooted at the base of his palm and curling up into the depths of his elbow. Its mark was unmistakable.

Marian cursed softly underneath her breath, and Jones frowned at her. "She is alive. Fates bless her, I knew it!"

"It's true, then," Jones said. He held his arm aloft, frozen for a long moment. Then he slowly lowered the limb, letting his sleeve fall once more. "'Twas the princess of this land that I met, and loved."

"Yes," Marian said, and watched his shoulders stiffen. "The Princess Emma, of Misthaven. I knew her well."

"You are family to her?" Jones asked, squinting at her. "Sister, or cousin? I was told she ran away from her birthright."

"I am no royal," Marian told him, "we share no blood. But I love her just as much, all the same." Jones turned on his heel to hide his face, his shoulders still stiff as stone. Marian watched with no small amount of sympathy - and curiosity. "Don't fret, Captain. That vine upon your skin tells us that she lives."

"You've heard of her death, even out here, then."

"Rumors of her death," Marian dismissed. "There is much to explain. Come." She brushed out her skirts. "We'll need the General."

"General?" Jones asked, finally turning back. His eyes were sunken in his face, but there was a spark within them that made Marian smile.

"Her name is Mulan," Marian explained. "Come. She tells it much better than I."

* * *

"A pirate?" Mulan wondered. "How fitting."

Jones bowed deeply, and Marian bit back a laugh. "It is an honor to meet you, General."

Mulan nodded stiffly, her face impassive, but Marian could tell she was grudgingly impressed by the formality. "We'll need refreshment," she said after a moment, looking quickly over at Marian, who raised an eyebrow at her in question. "Lucille, if you don't mind?"

Little Lucille, standing guard at the mouth of the grotto, jumped to attention. "Yes, General," she chirped, and scampered off. The rest of the students tittered quietly from the trees, hidden among the branches. Mulan looked sternly toward the thickest part of the wood, and the tittering stopped.

"Emma's alive, then," Mulan said, falling gracefully to her knees, next to the wooden stump that served as a makeshift table. Jones followed, after a moment of indecision, and Marian flopped unceremoniously between them both. "I'd hoped that was the case."

"The vine," Jones said, staring intently at Mulan, "it is a location spell."

"Yes," Marian said. "Sort of."

"Not really," Mulan said.

Jones looked between the two of them. "Alright," he said flatly.

"Perhaps we should start at the beginning," Marian said delicately.

"Very well." Mulan inclined her head. "Emma spent her summers here as a child, Captain, and that is how she and I met. Her parents are soulmates, as you probably know. She has the gift of magic."

"Well, yes, I knew that," Jones said dryly. "But - true love, is what you speak of…?"

"The Bear and her Shepherd," Marian interjected, with a small laugh. "Yes. Her powers are very strong."

Jones nodded, absorbing this.

"She learnt the ways of her magic from the dryads," Mulan continued. Her voice was as clear and even as a bell, and it warmed Marian's heart to listen to it, as always. "It was her mother's decision, I believe. She did not want the princess to fall prey to those who might seek to take advantage, or even to turn her to the darkness. The dryads were the best option, as wild as they are. I was her companion - her bodyguard, of sorts, during the summers that she spent here."

"I don't know much of dryads," Jones said, "but if they are anything like the nymphs of the seas, they don't do anything for free."

"You'd be correct, in that," Mulan said wryly. She paused, as little Lucille came running back into the grotto, dangling a teapot from one hand. All three of the adults watched indulgently as she barrelled through their little circle and set the lot down on the wooden stump. "Cups, Lucille?"

"Oh!" Lucille said, and closed her eyes. A faint wind ruffled the child's hair, and three mugs melted into existence next to the teapot. Jones exhaled sharply, then rolled his eyes pointedly at Marian, who only smirked.

"Thank you," Mulan said, "that will be all."

Lucille bowed, then darted off towards the nearest tree. She was up and within its leaves in no more than a few moments.

"Dryads," Jones said, after a moment.

Mulan nodded sagely, pouring the tea. "Small ones," she said. "The price we pay."

"A challenging one, perhaps, but the challenge of children is a pleasant one," Marian interjected. She smiled at Jones. "My men and I only joined this endeavor recently, Captain. After my husband's...departure. But Emma and I have known each other for longer - we met when she came with her parents to the kingdom where I was born. My mother was the wife of a governor, and they stayed with us for a few months."

"You teach them...what, to fight? Is that not something they can learn on their own?"

"You'd be surprised," Mulan said evenly. She paused to sip her tea, handing Marian's over to her as well. Jones didn't even glance at his. "Not to fight, anyway. It is more than fighting...it is hard to explain."

Jones made a dismissive sound. "I don't need to know everything," he said impatiently. "Tell me of...Emma." He said the name with a certain unfamiliarity, but with a gentleness, as well.

Mulan looked over at Marian briefly, then regarded him with a calm gaze. "You spoke of the vine, before. It is a location spell, of a sort, but that was not its original intention."

"The rumor I heard was that her mother had it cast."

"That is also true," Mulan said slowly. She set her teacup down carefully. "When Emma was eighteen, her...tutor, I guess you could say, had a vision. She was one of the eldest dryads, and the one who had taken on the bulk of Emma's training. She was very sick, at the time, because of her age, and the prophecy she spoke was one of the last she gave before her death." Mulan nodded at Killian's wrist, the vine just barely visible beneath the hem of his sleeve. "That vine is an old protection spell, designed to keep Emma within the borders of this forest. Her mother convinced the dryad to perform it before she died, convinced as she was that it was her only option to keep Emma safe."

"Because of the vision she had," Jones said slowly.

"A vision of Emma's death, yes," Mulan said. Her voice turned dry. "I'm sure you can imagine Emma's reaction to all of this."

Jones snorted, and the trees tittered again, faintly.

"Emma found a way to modify it - obviously," Mulan said. "I helped her."

"We both did," Marian interjected. "This was right after my husband left me. Queen Regina...owed me one, you could say. She modified the spell - turned it from a containment, to a sort of...trace. It would still protect her, and track her movements, but nothing else."

"Right," Jones said, with sudden understanding.

"There was a plague sweeping the kingdom that summer," Mulan recalled. "Many people died. We took advantage of the King and Queen's distraction, and helped Emma escape. We were able to conceal her absence from them for almost two years, before they finally discovered the truth."

"But - why leave?" Jones asked. "Was it only because she was angry?"

"She wanted to prove a point," Marian said. "But she also knew she had to. She was trained by a seer, remember."

"She has visions, as well?" Jones asked.

"I don't know if they're quite as clear as visions, but she has...something," Marian replied. "Something that always guided her actions. Fate, perhaps. At any rate, she knew she had to go, and we were more than willing to help her."

"Safety in a cage is not true safety," Mulan said evenly, and a heavy silence descended upon the circle.

Jones rubbed at his beard. "Fine," he said, "but why do I wear it now?"

"The vine is tied to her lifeforce," Mulan said. "So while it exists, so does Emma. But it is upon your skin…" she gave Marian another glance. "That, I cannot answer. The dryads might, but - there aren't that many of the older ones left. And the younger ones are more...mortal, now."

"Of course," Jones murmured. "They're dying out. That is why you help them."

Mulan inclined her head. Marian was impressed, but not surprised - of course he'd be smart. Smart, and handsome, and gallant, and a bit of a rogue - Emma was still Emma, after all. She wouldn't choose anyone who couldn't keep her on her toes. The realization was something of a relief.

"She did something…" Jones said distantly, "when I last saw her. She kissed me goodbye, and it was…" he shook his head. "Strange. I fell unconscious, and my shadow…" he sighed. "I had a curse of my own, you see. It was gone when I woke up, and I have only this vine, now."

"It must've been something Emma did," Marian said. "She gave you her vine, and took your curse, maybe."

"What curse was this?" Mulan asked.

"A curse of Neverland," Jones said, and the trees fell suddenly, deathly silent. Jones' mouth tightened. "She has gone there, hasn't she."

Mulan didn't reply, but she glanced towards the trees. The branches were unnaturally still.

"We know she fought the eldest brother, of the seven Princes of the Southern Isles," Marian said, after a moment. "The report reached the crown three weeks ago. There was a duel, in the capital, and Prince Pieter fell to the Princess' blade." Marian paused. "The Queen keeps in contact with us, despite our betrayal, and keeps us informed. The dryads are...her backup plan, you see."

"That must have been what she did that day," Jones said to himself. "While I...how ignorant I was. I didn't even ask."

"A man in love," Mulan said. The words were derisive, but her voice held no censure. "They will still sail upon Misthaven. Their greed is tainted with bloodlust, now. She has, perhaps, made the situation worse."

"But she's divided their forces," Jones argued. "Without Pieter, the brothers will turn on each other. The youngest, Hans, is the greediest. He will not hesitate to consolidate his power against his brothers."

"And their feud will tear our kingdom apart," Mulan said darkly.

"Backup plan," Jones said suddenly, tone sharp. "That is - the Queen means to make these children fight?"

"As a last resort," Marian assured him, but his expression remained unmoved.

"They might be children, Captain, but immortal children are still far more capable than an army of regular men," Mulan reminded him. "Still. We hope to avoid that if we can."

"He brought a journal, Mulan," Marian said. Both Jones and Mulan looked at her sharply. "Emma gave it to him."

Mulan looked back at Jones, who pulled the leather book reluctantly from his pocket.

"It is blank," he said, handing it over with no small amount of conflict. "I've tried just about every trick of revealing I know, and it remains empty, aside from the map - "

His words melted away with the sudden wind that blew through the grotto, and the book in Mulan's hands glowed gently with a golden light. After a few precious seconds, the light faded, and when Mulan opened its cover, the pages were covered in Emma's cramped, messy handwriting.

Jones cleared his throat. "I stand corrected," he said hoarsely.

Mulan was peering at the first page. "It's her notes," she said. "A journal, of sorts. I - " she stopped suddenly, a small frown upon her face as she paged gently through the book. "She's been writing in this since the day she left."

Marian's heart ached. "She sent it back for us."

Silence descended once more. The trees swayed gently, whispering their secrets into the wind.

"Here," Mulan said, at length. She'd turned to the very back of the book. "This is the last entry." She read furiously, tensely. Jones sat rigidly, clearly exerting most of his effort just to keep himself still. "She wants us to tell her parents what happened, and…" Mulan broke off. "There's a passage addressed to you, Captain."

Jones' shoulders stiffened even more, if that were at all possible.

"She says the Brothers plan to sail against Misthaven, which we already know, and...there's some information about their strategy. Things she discovered during the fight with Pieter." Mulan paused. "There's valuable intelligence here. She has given us a great advantage in the coming battle."

"We'll send word to the capital," Marian said quickly, rising to her feet. "If I send Little John now, he can make it to the edge of the Forest before nightfall."

"Do it," Mulan said tersely, and Marian wasted no more time. She strode quickly back in the direction of the central circle of the camp, leaving Jones and Mulan to sit together, the journal between them.

She could not help but glance back one last time before she got too far out of sight, something tender in her heart trembling at the vision of them leaning over the small book together, talking cautiously in the wooded grotto. A general and a pirate, she thought. What a strange place the world is, Marian wondered. Strange and terrifying and wonderful.

She took a breath, and strode quickly back to her camp. Little John was going to laugh his hat right off his head, she thought.

* * *

Marian did not see Jones or Mulan again that day, distracted as she was. Little John had in fact laughed his hat off, and then promptly picked it back up again and rode off on his horse, set for the forest's edge. He would be gone for at least a week.

Roland was fussy that night, and Mulan did not join them in their tent as she normally did, and the next few days were full of little crises - a shortage of clean blankets, and a sudden storm on the horizon to prepare for. Marian glimpsed Mulan quite a few times with her students, directing them in various tasks around the camp, and Jones only once - at the edge of a group led by Much, helping to secure the food stores for the coming storm. He looked exhausted, Marian noticed, but - he was not the only one.

Rain had a cleansing quality to it, even when it came accompanied by thunder and lightning, and as Roland slept, Marian stayed awake to listen to its fearsome sounds. The magic of the little dryad students kept the water away from the main center of the camp, but she could still hear it hitting the leaves of the trees all around them, as well as the strange, otherworldly noise of the wind that blew the drops away from the camp. It was a strange combination, but comforting, after all the years she'd slept beneath it.

Jones was outside, sitting with his back against the wall of one of the training poles. Marian saw him as she peeked outside to check the wind vane, and in a fit of impulsiveness, she stepped out to interrupt his solitude.

"Milady," he said, his eyes on the sky.

"Captain," she greeted, following his gaze. "Queer, isn't it?"

The dome of magic, created by the students, did in fact look very strange. Marian remembered the first time she'd seen them do this spell, and how she couldn't tear her eyes away.

"A bit," Jones said. He lowered his face. "I've seen something like it before."

Marian noticed he held Emma's journal loosely in one hand. "You've seen much, I'm sure, in your travels."

"Too much, some would say." Jones sighed. "Things never change, you know. Wars and kings, squabbling over land, money, women - the same story, over and over. I find myself sick of it." He made as if to toss the journal away, then arrested his motion at the last second and placed it carefully on the ground next to his knee. "Forgive me. I am too old and bitter to be good company tonight, perhaps."

"You've been through some pain, these past few weeks," Marian said, and settled herself down into a crouch a few feet away from his knee. "I know some of that myself."

"Aye, I imagine you do."

Marian watched him with blatant curiosity, this man that Emma loved. She'd resigned herself to the constant, dull pain that was the absence of her oldest friend, just as she'd resigned herself to the gaping wound her husband had left her with, a wound doomed never to heal completely. But things were changing now, she knew. A new man, in their camp, who wore Emma's vine, and carried her journal. A war, sailing toward their shores, and an uncertain future. Marian had ceased to fear the fates since her husband had left, for she knew that whatever they had in store for her, so long as her son was safe, she would not mind. But she was curious - maybe too much for her own good. That is what her mother used to say.

"Tell me of Emma," Marian asked softly. "The Emma you knew."

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain intensified for a quick moment, a strong gust of wind ruffling the trees. Still, the dome kept them dry, and the torches lit along the makeshift pathways revealed the sudden longing upon Jones' face.

"I called her Swan," he said, after a long moment. "She worked as a barmaid, in an inn that I frequented."

Marian tried to picture it: the elegant, spry princess she had known, washing dishes and serving ale. She...probably would have taken to that quite well, Marian thought wryly.

"She was witty, and endlessly skeptical," he said. "Always something to say, always an opinion. She never told me her name - I called her Swan, because she...said it was her favorite animal. I used to carve her these little wooden figurines, you see…" Jones trailed off. "I don't know what happened to them. I didn't even check her room, before I left. When I awoke...I just sailed away, straight to Misthaven."

Marian bit her lip.

"Her laugh was the sweetest I'd ever heard. I used to spend weeks, on my voyages, coming up with things to say to make her laugh. And she had such conviction, such heart…" Jones trailed off again, his voice lost to the sounds of the storm.

"She is not dead," Marian said, both for herself, and for him.

"I think I would know if she were," Jones said, gripping the wrist where the vine curled. "I think I...would be able to feel it."

Marian sighed, and looked up at the sky, past the trees. The rain was still falling outside of their windswept circle, and she knew that somewhere on the other side of that water, the moon shone bright and full.

"What will you do now?" she asked. "Will you look for her?"

"I can't." Marian looked back at him, and watched him rub his forehead wearily. "I've no idea where to look, for one, and if my suspicions are correct - "

"Neverland," Marian said softly. "I didn't think it really existed."

"Trust me, it does," Jones said. His tone left no room for argument.

Marian thought of Emma again, the Emma she'd known six years past. Marian had come to this forest pregnant and heartbroken, her husband's men trailing after her out of guilt and obligation, and Mulan and Emma had greeted her with open arms and wide smiles (well - Emma had smiled. Mulan was never a woman who smiled easily). Even when they were children Emma had been fierce, but as she grew older that stubborn tenacity had hardened into resolve, and determination, and the unyielding perseverance of a warrior. Marian remembered watching Emma's lessons in the grotto that the dryad children had inherited - even then, still just a girl of eighteen, her power had been impressive. What she'd grown into, after years abroad on her own, drifting from kingdom to kingdom on her adventures, Marian could only imagine.

"She's asked me to stay, at any rate." Jones held up the journal. "To help you. So that is what I will do, if you and the General will allow it."

"We would not turn you away, even if our dear friend did not love you," Marian told him. "Our forest is home to anyone who needs one."

Jones was silent, his face dappled in the shadows. From what Marian could see of it, it was troubled.

"And whatever dangers Emma faces now," Marian continued, "she will survive them, of that I have no doubt. She will return when she is finished with whatever she needs to do. We must have faith."

A long moment passed, and when Jones spoke again, his voice was much clearer than it had been before, the raggedness almost gone. "You should take this," he said, holding out the journal. Marian gaped at him in surprise. "I was selfish to keep it to myself. You loved her as well, you should read it."

"It's yours," Marian said slowly, "she left it for you, not me."

"No," Jones said, with a soft laugh, "no. Not just me."

Marian reached out and touched the cover, her heart pulsing painfully. Six years, she thought. Six years.

"She's never met my son," Marian heard herself say. "She used to call him her little brother. 'Little brother, come out and meet everyone,' that's what she'd say all the time. Speaking right to my stomach, as if he could hear her!"

Jones leaned forward, closing the distance between them and pressing the book into her hand. "Take it, milady," he urged gently. "Go on."

Marian closed her fingers around it, and brought it to her lap. Her eyes prickled.

"I know something of heartbreak," Jones said, leaning back against the pole. He looked away casually, as if the previous moment hadn't affected him at all, though Marian could see his hands shaking, just a bit. "Even before Emma, I knew it. I've lived a long time, milady, and I've seen and had much tragedy. If she never returns...I will survive it. I won't ever be the same man again, but I will live all the same." He cleared his throat. "They never speak about that in the songs, do they? How hard it is to be the one left alive. The ugly dreariness of it. How boring and mundane your pain becomes."

Marian swallowed thickly, and clutched the journal against her chest.

"This isn't my homeland. To be honest, I wouldn't care less about Misthaven's fate, if it weren't for Emma. But I can make myself care, for her." Jones rubbed the scruff of his beard, staring up at the rain. "Perhaps that's not the most flattering way to put it, but it's the truth. I'm an honorable man, but only when I care to be. It's not my natural state."

"Most people are not honorable at all," Marian said, wiping at her eyes. Jones kindly kept his face turned away, and did not seem to react much at all to her words. "You say that as if any honorable person, man or otherwise, doesn't struggle to keep it up in times of hardship."

"I've known those to whom it came naturally," Jones said quietly. "My brother was like that. Emma is too, as much as she would protest."

Marian laughed shakily. "Oh, you do know her well."

"I should hope so."

Marian took a deep breath, her fingers closed tightly around the book. "Whatever Emma's battle is," she said, "it is up to her to win it, and her alone. She made sure of that. Ours is still coming, and we mustn't let ourselves become distracted."

"Aye." Jones turned to look at her, expression grave. "My men are still at the dock, waiting for my return. I can send for them, if you want. My crew is small, but they will help. None of us are strangers to war."

"We could use any help we can find," Marian said softly.

Silence stretched between them for another long moment. Marian found herself wishing for Mulan, and her quiet, steady presence. Mulan always made her feel better.

"Thank you, Captain," Marian finally said, still clutching the journal. "I don't think I said that before - for bringing us this news. And for your help, of course."

"I'm not doing it for you," Jones reminded her, but his voice was kind. "And you should call me Killian."

"If that's what you wish," Marian said. "Killian." She paused, and smiled. "I don't suppose you'll call me 'Marian,' though."

"You are a very smart woman, no wonder they all look up to you so," Jones said.

"And you're a bit of a snake charmer," Marian said.

Jones - Killian - laughed. The sound was surprisingly loud, and boisterous in a way Marian didn't think he was capable of. "You know, Emma said the same thing about me."

"Well," Marian said wryly, "she's a smart woman, too."

* * *

Little John returned within the week with three new horses and a missive from the Bear Queen. Roland announced his presence to the camp, and promptly busied himself with the new additions to their herd, which relieved Marian of the burden of finding something to occupy him with while they discussed the things that she did not want him to overhear.

"She's called us to court," Little John said, with no small amount of condescending irony. "Jones, especially. She wishes to speak with the man that has defiled her daughter."

"It doesn't really say that!" Marian exclaimed.

Killian rolled his eyes dramatically from his spot next to Mulan, both of them hunched over the official parchment. "No, it doesn't really say that," he said.

Little John laughed. "You have to read between the lines," he said, and Killian huffed.

"But she does want to see him," Mulan said. "All of us, actually. We mustn't go, of course. There's no way that will end well."

"She'd lock him in the dungeon," Little John said. "Or chop you up and throw you in the stew, Jones. Serve you to her peace council."

"Oh, stop," Marian said, biting back a laugh. Even Mulan's mouth was twitching. "This is serious."

"Serious! Oh, yes. A war, and all that." Little John tipped his cap. "Serious matters, for serious people. That probably leaves all of us out, exceptin' the General, of course."

"Feel free to show yourself out then," Mulan said dryly.

"She wants your dryads in the capital," Killian said, cutting through the mirth. "Ready to fight, if need be. Does she have so little faith in her own navy?"

"Yes," Mulan said bluntly. "But having us in the capital means she has the upper hand. We're not her most favorite people, remember."

"An honorable ruler," Killian grumbled, "trapping her daughter, sending children to war. A Bear of a Queen, indeed." Little John grunted in agreement. "Will she not send men after us, if we disobey this order?"

"She knows better than to try," Little John said with a scoff. "She's tried before, in fact. Lost her best huntsmen that way."

"The important thing is that she knows the truth now," Marian said. "We've done our part, and upheld our promise to Emma. If the fight reaches Misthaven's shores, we will be ready. But we won't hand ourselves over to the royals, either. We must form a plan."

"The Queen knows nothing of my students anyway," Mulan grumbled, pushing the royal missive aside. "She means to send them in like infantry - foolishness! That is not how they fight."

"Our numbers are not enough for that to be a viable plan, even if it were," Little John said. "No - we are outlaws. And the dryads are children of shadows. That is our strength. We shall play to it."

"My men can serve as spies," Killian said. "The Queen calls for volunteers in times such as these, correct? They can sign up as cadets, and send news back to us."

"Pirates in the Queen's army?" Little John asked skeptically.

"We weren't always pirates," Killian said evenly. "And a good pirate knows how to blend in, anyway."

"It'll be helpful even if it fails," Mulan said. "Do it." Killian nodded.

"But whatever the Queen's plan," Marian interjected, "we must supplement it, not override it. The navy will have Emma's intelligence - it is possible that they will defeat the Brothers at sea, and the battle will never even reach land."

"Then we will be prepared for any possibility," Mulan concluded. "Marian, you will stay here and ready the camp for refugees. We will provide a safe haven for those who cannot fight, should the battle reach the villages. My students and I will move to the edge of the Morning Forest, so that we can be ready should our assistance be needed." Mulan paused. "Captain, I have seen your skill with the sword. If you have no quarrel, I would...appreciate your assistance."

"You have it, General," Killian said, inclining his head.

"I'll stay with Marian," Little John said. "I'll send most of the Merry Men with you, General, but - you'll need fighters here too, in case the worst of the worst comes to pass."

"Then it seems that is our plan," Marian said gravely. "Hopefully it is an overly cautious one."

"Better to be cautious than dead, I say," Little John said, rising to his feet with a groan. "I'll go track down the Robin Hood. It's almost time for his lessons."

"Thank you, John," Marian said gratefully. He tipped his cap at her with a grin, and disappeared through the flap of the tent.

Mulan looked up as well. "I must see to my students. Captain - "

"I will accompany you." Killian stood up, leaving the royal decree abandoned on Marian's breakfast table. "Milady."

"Marian," Marian teased. Killian shrugged at her as he walked past, following Little John's path out of the tent and into the camp. Mulan raised an eyebrow at the display, and Marian copied the good captain's shrug. "Inside joke."

"Indeed," Mulan said dryly. She moved on the same path as well, but paused briefly at Marian's shoulder. "Milady."

"General." Marian leaned into Mulan's touch briefly, treasuring the sensation of calloused fingers upon her cheek. "You will not leave until tomorrow, correct? I expect you to join us tonight. Roland and I have missed you."

"Things have been busy." Mulan paused, eyes tracking the spot where Killian had just stood. "The Captain. He is…"

"Trustworthy," Marian said decisively, thinking of the journal. She'd been reading it backwards, and Emma had had plenty to say about the pirate she'd met at the inn in Plitsblasse. If Marian hadn't figured him out herself, Emma's words would have been plenty for her to answer the question anyway.

"Very well." Mulan nodded, and touched Marian's face again, this time on her brow. "I have missed you both as well, you know."

"I know." They basked in the moment for a while longer, looking at each other in the dim light of Marian's candles. There was never enough time, Marian knew. There were just so many things to say, and even after all the years of solitude, out here in the forest, they still could never, ever find enough of these moments to say them.

"I must go. I will see you tonight." Mulan smiled briefly, but warmly, and withdrew her hand. "There is much to do to prepare."

Marian took a shaky breath. "Yes," she said, and pulled the flap of her tent open, enough for both of them to pass through. "Alright, then. Let's get to work," she said, and they stepped out into the camp together, into the morning of a new day.

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